“Howdy,” said Jepson, succinctly and comprehensively, to the group. Then suddenly addressing the two men on the log, “I seen ye two bucks thar on yer hoss-critters, at the baptizin’. Ye hain’t got no right ter mighty nigh ride down the saints that-a-way, ’mongst the congregation, an’ ef I hed noticed in time I’d hev made ye ’light an’ hitch.” There was a momentary hesitation. Then one of them, Gideon Dake, a languid, lank, loose-jointed fellow, observed, with as little animation as if he were an automaton, “Oh, shet up, Teck! Ye air too robustious. Ye ’low ter fairly rule the Cove!” The other, Joe Bassett, spoke more briskly. “I ain’t afeard ter be a sorter sinner, now, Teck. The devil’s got his hands so full a-lookin’ arter Clem Sanders hyar ez he ain’t goin’ ter stop jes’ fur me. Hev ye hearn ez he war viewed right hyar in the forge?” “Shucks!” said Jepson, incredulously. Then leaning forward to look at the burly blacksmith within the shop, “That ain’t a true word, air it, Clem?” “Dunno,” said the blacksmith cavalierly. “Let them say ez seen him.” “Ef I do ride down the saints, I ain’t never hed Satan ter kem a-bulgin’ ter the Settlemint ter look arter me,” protested Bassett. Jepson glanced about him doubtfully. “Who say they seen him?” “Old Pa’son Donnard,” said Bassett, beginning to narrate the old story to a new listener with a relish proportionate to the rarity of the opportunity. “Old man war comin’ from Piomingo Cove, whar he hed hed preachin’ the day before. ’Twar toler’ble late. Thar warn’t no moon, an’ the dark, it overtuk him. Waal, sir, he kem nigh hyar along o’ the water-side. An’ he say all of a suddint he seen this blacksmith shop like a yawnin’ mouth o’ hell, ez ef the mounting hed opened. An’ the flames o’ the forge fire, they le’pt up, an’ sunk down, an’ flared out, kase Clem, he’d let one o’ them fool boys caper with the bellows. An’ pa’son, he see two o’ them boys a-wrastlin’ in that unholy light; an’ Jim Crane war a-dancin’ an’ a-shufflin’, an’ a-cuttin’ the pidgeon-wing; an Buck Blake war a-playin’ a reg’lar dancin’-chune on the fiddle; an’ Clem hyar an’ Mose Hull war a-playin’ kyerds, an’ a-bettin’. Clem war a-settin’ on the shoein’ stool, an’ Mose on a plow, an’ they laid thar kyerds on the top o’ a bar’l. An’ Clem war a-beatin’ Mose. An’ wunst in a while he’d fling back his head an’ holler, bein’ so glad! An’ suddint Pa’son Donnard say his eyes war opened. He seen settin’ in the midst, propped up on the anvil, Satan hisself. He hed horns, an’ he hed wings, suthin’ like a bat’s, looked sorter bat-wise, only big ez a man. An’ Pa’son Donnard say he knowed ’twar Satan even before he tuk notice o’ his feet,—one war a huff, an’ the t’other war a club-foot! An’ he hed ’em both propped up on the stump what the anvil sets on. An’ the devil war a-lookin’ over Clem’s shoulder at sech kyerds ez Clem held. An’ when Clem would beat, Satan would jes’ hug hisself, an’ rock back’ards an for’ards, an’ laff till